A/N: I seem to have a thing for Spamano stories about cities. Well, this was a drabble someone on tumblr wanted me to write. It was kind of rushed, but I'm proud of it nonetheless.
Young, Wild Love
The streets were different at night. Sometimes you could hear screams of either agony or pleasure, danger or love. Sometimes the pavement was wet with rain or spilled liquor, and sometimes it was dry and covered with litter. Sometimes you could look up and see the stars, and sometimes the street lamps were the only stars you needed.
Love was something this city had a lot of. Not the kind that stays at home cooking dinner for the kids, or the kind that giggles at texts sent in the middle of Algebra class. No, this city was a city of hot, heavy love, the kind that knows speed and dances and flashing lights on sweating masses of hormonal teenagers moving and jumping and spinning as one being. This city's love was drugs of questionable origin and beer you seduced from the person dancing next to you. This city's love faded when the sun came up in the morning, and burned twice as bright in the night.
I met him on the dance floor, when he was wearing black skinny jeans and a way-too-loose t-shirt, the sleeves cut off, a grungy Italian flag on the design. He was lean, but not twiggy, and he had brown hair that was almost completely straight, except for one curl that stuck out from his head, like he flat-ironed his hair, and that one curl wouldn't put up with it. He struck my attention immediately, and I just spent a long time watching him. I watched the way he danced with the music, and was the only one that looked skillful, even though he was just jumping around like everyone else. He mostly kept to himself, though he would occasionally turn around and spin a pretty, over-made-up girl, or give a flirty wink to a man with muscles so big it was almost intimidating. Even though this would happen, he would always leave eventually, and didn't seem too interested in picking someone up for the night.
I was hooked.
I bought him drinks, got him drunk enough to come home with me several times. By the fifth time, we had each other's phone numbers, and would call in the middle of the night to mutter sweet, sexy words to each other. We would dance, and then spend the night together, stumbling home drunk and laughing. I would spin him around, and catch him when he almost fell, and when we would finally reach one of our apartments, we would fall onto the bed, the couch, the kitchen table, anywhere and everywhere that we found was the furthest point we could reach before the kisses and touches turned into desperate moans and grinds and clothes tossed onto the floor.
Soon, we didn't even need to be drunk to love each other. We found that the fast, heavy, hot nights came easy even when we were sober. Our love started becoming that that the legends of this city are made out of, and even something more. I would get up and make breakfast, and we even went out on dates when it was too early for the clubs to be open. Our love had two sides: the love of the dances and loud music and sweat and lust, and the love of quiet mornings waking up in each others' arms.
Our love was eternal and bright, like the city and its life.